


Memento Mori

by Galanerd



Category: Moonlight (TV), Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anxiety, Gen, Ghost Laura Hale, Private Investigators, Psychic Abilities, Psychic Original Female Character, References to Depression, References to Moonlight (TV), Sheriff Stilinski's Name is John
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-10
Updated: 2019-05-30
Packaged: 2019-11-14 19:22:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18058535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Galanerd/pseuds/Galanerd
Summary: Alcoholic. Private Investigator. Derek Hale’s former best friend. Seer of dead people. Sloan Guerra has plenty to worry about now: Laura Hale has been murdered, Scott McCall has been bitten by a werewolf, her control over her Sight is spiraling out of control, and Derek has returned. Sloan counts herself lucky if she makes it to the next full moon without alcohol poisoning.





	1. Chapter 1

If you asked Sloan Guerra last night if she planned on waking up after passing out on her uncomfortable couch to an alarm blaring _“Quimbara”_ , a pounding head, dry mouth, and a need to purge whatever it was sloshing in her stomach, she’d give you that. She wouldn’t have remembered it, but she’d believe it.

If you told her she’d wake to all that _plus_ Laura Hale standing over her impatiently, pressing her chilling hands against the back of her neck, well, that’s probably where she would have told you to fuck off.

“Jesus!” Sloan lurched up, tumbling off the couch and nearly rolling into her coffee table. The movement sent a wave of nausea through her, and before she could process anything else, she found herself scrambling to her bathroom, slamming the door open. Seeing the lid of the toilet down, she only barely managed to turn to the tub before emptying her stomach of whatever the hell it was she drank last night.

It felt like forever, but she finally finished. Chest heaving, legs shaking, she spit into the tub before reaching down and turning on the water to wash away the mess. She’d wash it better with bleach later; for the moment she just wanted to get it out of her sight.

Laura stood at the door, watching with concern as Sloan shuffled to the sink, turned on the hot water and proceeded to wash out her mouth. Her hands shook as they gripped her toothbrush, and more than once she had to pause to hold on to the counter so that she wouldn’t fall to the side. She rinsed her mouth, splashed water on her face to try and get the crusty feeling of unpleasant sleep from her. When she looked up, a message had been written in the fogged mirror.

_You promised_

Sloan felt herself deflate, and if she was in a better state of mind would have been impressed that she was able to shrink anymore into herself. “I know,” she said, voice hoarse from a night of drinking and morning of retching. She reached up and wiped a hand through the message, erasing it, before turning to face Laura. Her eyes were sympathetic, but also disappointed, and Sloan wished she was still drunk so she wouldn’t be able to see her.

Sloan hobbled past Laura into the living room, ignoring the scatterings of clothes, books, and files, the bottle Sloan had demolished the night before left empty and tipped over next to the couch. Before she had disappeared, Laura had given her shit about it, called it disgusting, and offered to buy her a maid for a day. Sloan had waved her off, claiming that it would be cheaper to bribe Stiles and Scott to do it for her.

The kitchen was just as bad as the living room. Dishes had to be washed, the table cluttered with boxes and bags of take out. She didn’t have to look in her fridge to know that it was near empty, and the only things she did have in there were probably past their date. But there was one thing Sloan kept clean and stocked, ready or use: her coffee machine and her single most favorite mug.

It had a monkey painted on it, its front on one side, the back on the other, and its arm acting as the handle. She’d had it for years, a gift from a former best friend. Laura had expressed surprise when she first saw it.

“He still has the matching cup,” she mused, and Sloan didn’t know how to feel about that.

They stood in silence as Sloan started her coffee, one by choice and the other not. There were things she had to do. The Sheriff to see, a murder to report, a death to relive, an apartment to clean. But she couldn’t bring herself to leave her place just yet. Not with her pounding head and foggy senses.

“Do you remember anything?” Sloan asked, and Laura shook her head. Before she could feel despondent over it, Laura’s hands rose, touching her throat before falling to her abdomen. Sloan knew enough about werewolves to know what that meant. Her throat had been ripped out. She had been torn in half. Laura’s eyes went wide in surprise.

She didn’t remember dying, but she knew how it happened. Most dead were like that. An instinctual knowledge.

“Another werewolf…” Sloan huffed. “Fuck.”

She’d have to call Mick. See if he’d find and send her some wolfbane bullets without asking questions. She knew he wouldn’t, because over the last five or so years she had worked with him in L.A., he had developed an intense protectiveness over her that was damn near smothering. Something about her being one of the few humans he let into his life.

The last of the coffee dripped into the pot, and Sloan poured herself a cup. She waited as long as she could stand before downing half the cup, scalding her tongue and throat in the process. It settled in her stomach uneasily. It’d make her sick later, but for now, the heat and caffeine were sobering. Maybe she could guilt the Sheriff into buying her a greasy breakfast… lunch?

“What time is it?” she muttered, and upon realizing it was nearly noon, let out a curse. “Fuck, let’s go report your murder then, I guess,” she said, throwing back the second half of her coffee.

*

Growing up, the Sheriff Station had been a second home to Sloan. Her father, Hugo, had been a deputy and would often take a young bored Sloan along with him on quiet patrols. She would go after school, and they would go home together. After his death, she carried on the tradition, but with John Stilinski instead. Her father’s best friend, her godfather, her adoptive father after Hugo’s death.

She wondered what Hugo would think seeing his daughter walking into the station with a raging hangover, large sunglasses covering half her face, hair swept up messily. Her clothes were wrinkled and and slept in, still stinking of alcohol, and her olive green utility jacket was a size too big. It fit better when she first got it.

She scowled at the light, at the bark of laughter from somewhere in the bullpen.

“Looking good, Guerra!”

“Eat shit, Wesley,” she snapped back, raising a middle finger at the deputy that called out to her. He had been a pain in her ass since they shared classes at Beacon Hills High School, and she couldn’t help but wonder why the _hell_ John hired him.

“Sloan,” Clara Baird, the day receptionist greeted as she walked past the front desk. She had been there since Sloan started Junior High, and she looked the exact same, if not for the greying in her hair. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“I need to talk to Juanito,” she answered, pausing before entering the hallway that lead to the office. “He in?”

“Does he know you’re coming?”

“That means he’s in,” Sloan decided, and carried on her way.

“You can’t keep doing that!” Clara called after her. She ignored it.

The hallway would eventually lead to the holding cells, but about halfway down, it lead to the Sheriff’s office. Sloan knocked once, leaning her head against the door in exhaustion as she did so, and felt the vibrations through her skull.

“Come in,” a muffled voice called, and Sloan stepped in. Sheriff John Stilinski - endearingly dubbed Juanito by the Guerras - sat at his desk, looking over a variety of papers. Sloan recognized the format of reports, records, and, of course, the pictures. The lower half of Laura Hale’s mutilated body. Not that John knew that.

“Sloan,” he said in surprise upon seeing her, only for the surprised expression on his face to give way to concern. “Christ, kid, you look like crap.”

Sloan sighed and walked in, grabbing the closest chair and dropping in it bonelessly. “Ask me how I feel,” she told him flatly, and he scowled. The expression fell from his face as she went on, pulling off her sunglasses. The light in the office was softer, and Sloan was convinced that John did it on purpose. For days she walked in hungover to hell. Or maybe for his own days walking in hungover to hell. “You found a body last night.”

“Aw, kiddo…”

Sloan ignored it to reach forward, scrambling for one of the pictures. She pulled it toward her and her stomach rolled at the sight of it. Laura was naked, probably had turned during the fight, and whoever killed her didn’t give her the dignity of covering her.

“Shit,” Sloan muttered, tossing the picture back and doubling forward, cradling her head, rubbing at her temples to combat the ever growing pounding there. She didn’t look forward to going to the woods, to seeing if she could see what had happened.

A hand dropped on her shoulder, and she picked up her head to see John crouching next to her. Sympathy in his eyes. “You saw who it was already?” She nodded. He sighed. “You usually don’t go drinking until after you’ve shared.”

“Yeah well, seeing your childhood best friend’s dead sister in your apartment kinda fucks you up,” she said, and John went still.

“Laura Hale?” He looked to the picture. “This is Laura Hale? I didn’t even know she was in town-”

“She came back a couple days ago,” Sloan interrupted, and he looked at her sharply. “She… She hired me to look into the Fire.” She paused as she pulled her messenger bag out from under her, as she had sat on it.

“We already closed that case,” John said.

“You closed it too early,” Sloan said bitterly, pulling out the beginning of her report for Laura. It was just her notes from her conversation with Laura, people she thought she should see and talk to. Her request to not go to the sheriff. But Laura was dead now, and Sloan knew that she was the last person to see her alive, and she wasn’t about to be accused of murder because of a dead woman’s wish.

“Sloan, all the evidence pointed-”

“Evidence can be fabricated, can be tampered with,” Sloan cut in. She looked up at him, and he almost drew back at the sight of her. The dark circles that looked more like bruises under her eyes, the red veins that stood out against the white and dark brown of her iris. Seeing Laura had brought back horrible memories. Spirits black and charred and still screaming in agony before their earthly pain left them. “The Hales stayed for _three_ weeks,” Sloan said darkly. “Accidental deaths - even violent ones - never stay that long.”

Three weeks they roamed Beacon Hills. One of Laura’s cousins, a little girl only seven years old, kept following Sloan around asking her to play with her.

Sloan had her stomach pumped for alcohol poisoning for the first time after the Hales were killed.

“I’m not asking you to reopen the case,” Sloan said softly, holding out the notes she had already taken. He looked at them reluctantly before letting out a sigh of defeat and taking them from her hands. “I’m just… letting you know what I’m up to. And I’m asking for help. Files from the fire.”

John seemed conflicted. “Kid, you know I hate when you get into this stuff.”

“Just following in my daddy’s footsteps,” she said with a weak smile. “ _Both_ my daddies.” He huffed, patted her shoulder. “I’ll be careful. And I’ll bring you what I find.”

“I don’t suppose you already know what happened to Laura?”

Sloan hesitated. John knew about Sloan’s Sight. He didn’t quite understand it, but he knew, and he helped her when he could. But he didn’t know about the Hales. Didn’t know about werewolves. Didn’t know about the creatures that resided in the realm of the living.

It wasn’t her place to share that knowledge. Her’s was the domain of the dead.

“I haven’t gone yet,” she answered instead. “I’ll let you know what I find.” She made to stand, and her knee ached, her back popped. “Keep an eye out for the rest of her.”

“You need to rest, kid. And lay off the alcohol.”

She let out a dry laugh. “I’ll do both when I’m dead.”

*

Sloan loved the preserve once. Most of her childhood was spent hiding amongst the trees. Not alone, of course. Derek Hale, former best friend, had always been with her. They played games of pretend - Of knights and dragons, of villains and heroes. The dead never followed her into the preserve, instead seeking her mother’s attention back at their home closer to town. They had their very own Terabithia in the Beacon Hills Preserve, Derek and Sloan.

But even death eventually reaches Terabithia.

Sloan followed as Laura moved through the preserve. Like most dead, Laura moved as though she walked, but her feet never touched the ground, and she glided more than anything. It unnerved Sloan once. She’s since gotten used to it.

They were deeper in the Preserve than Sloan has been since her junior high days, and much closer to the Hale house than she was comfortable with. She worried that that was where Laura lead her, and if it was, then Sloan was sorry, but she wasn’t going to be touching and seeing anything. She’d been traumatized enough by those deaths.

“Are we almost there?” Sloan asked, and immediately regretted her sharp tone. Laura was leading her to the place of her death. That was never pleasant for the dead. But Laura seemed to understand Sloan’s anxiety, and nodded. She pointed to a small incline, and Sloan nodded.

“Alright. Just over that?” Laura nodded. “Cool.” She looked at Laura, who didn’t make a move to go on. Returning was hard for most dead, and Sloan didn’t blame her for hesitating. No one wanted to relive their deaths. That’s what Sloan was for. “You don’t have to stay for this. I can find it.”

Laura seemed relieved, offering Sloan a small smile, and it struck her how much like her brother she looked like when she smiled.

“I’ll bring out the Ouija board tonight,” Sloan offered as Laura faded, and within seconds Sloan was alone. She didn’t move for a moment, instead taking in her surroundings. She had since removed her sunglasses, leaving them behind in her car as the day grew cloudy. It might rain later.

She went up the incline, and let her shoulders drop upon realizing she would have to go down the other side of the small hill. Laura’s other half wasn’t there, but Sloan felt the familiar cloud of death. She eased her way down only to slip at the bottom. She landed on her back, and slid down the last couple feet. She hadn’t hit her head, but she almost wished she had, so she’d have an excuse not to get back up. The tree branches above her danced, and she raised her arms out to them, grabbing at them aimlessly with her gloved hands.

Now was not the time to lay around playing dead. She had a job to do.

She forced herself up, but didn’t bother brushing herself off. She felt twigs and leaves stick in her hair.

“Aesthetic,” she said before laughing humorlessly. Her smile fell away when she noticed a mess in the dirt and leaves in front of her. Blood.

Laura had died there.

Sloan approached it carefully, not wanting to disturb the scene more than she knew she would. She pulled one of her gloves off and stuffed it in her pocket before kneeling just outside the circle of death.

Sloan hated doing this. But the sooner she did it, the sooner she’d get her answers. The sooner she’d help Laura move on. The sooner she’d get to put the whole thing behind her.

She took a deep breath and pressed her bare, shaking hand into the dirt and leaves.

It hit immediately. She felt light tremors wrack her body as her eyes rolled back into her head. Right before she dropped into the memory, she swore she heard a faraway, familiar voice call her name.

*

 _Gasping. Choking on blood. Grabbing at her throat, stop the bleeding. Stop herself from dying. Dying. She’s_ dying _. Fear, cold terror, floods her body. Above her, yellow eyes bleed crimson as she coughs her last living breath._

_*_

_A boy. Shaggy hair, wheezing breath. Stumbling down the hill, landing hard. Fear. Running, falling, heavy weight holding him down. Pain searing through his side. Fiery crimson eyes._

_*_

“...oan! Sloan, come on, wake up, _Sloan!_ ”

She gasped, sucking in air and immediately coughing it out, eyes snapping open as she’s pulled from the memory. Her vision was dark, blurry, and panic flared in her chest.

“Sloan, breathe, you’re fine,” the voice, familiar, painfully familiar, ordered her, and she sucked in another breath, squeezing her eyes shut. Phantom pain seared across her middle and her throat, and she swore she still felt the teeth clamped down on her side.

“That’s it, just breathe.”

Someone held her, she realized, as a hand brushed her hair from her face. The touch grounded her; touch always grounded her while she dove into memories. Mick and Beth used to hold her like that when she came out of them for their cases in L.A., and it made her ache for them. She opened her eyes, and this time she could see, though only blurry shapes. She blinked again, and her vision cleared.

She didn’t recognize the face above her at first. The strong jaw threw her off, the lack of baby fat she had memorized. But there was no denying those eyes, the concern in them, and for a moment Sloan felt fifteen again.

Derek Hale loomed over her, but a different Derek Hale. A Derek Hale that should be on the completely opposite side of the country. That had no reason to be back in Beacon Hills the day after his sister’s murder at the teeth of another werewolf.

It occured to Sloan that _Derek_ was a werewolf.

She slammed her hand into his face, shoving herself away from him. The action took him by surprise, giving her a chance to roll away from him.

“Sloan, what the fuck-” he exclaimed in outrage, stopping short at the sight of the handgun she pulled free from her shoulder holster, which had been hidden by her oversized jacket. She was still kneeling on the ground, about a yard or so away from Derek. Closer than she wanted to be. The gun pointed at his face didn’t have monkshood bullets, but she figured it’d down him long enough for her to get away.

“Sloan-”

“Show me your eyes,” she ordered, voice cold as she slipped the gun off safety. His brows shot up in surprise.

“What-”

“Derek Hale, I don’t wanna shoot you in the face after seeing you for the first time in six years, so you better show me your _fucking eyes_.”

And he must have heard the tremor in her voice, seen her shaking hands. She fought to keep her vision clear, because she felt that she’d slip back into the memory at any moment, but not until she _knew_. She pulled back the hammer when he had yet to flash his eyes at her.

He raised his hands in a placating manner. “Your _eyes_ , Derek, not your fucking hands.” And that did it for him. His eyes flashed, and they flashed blue. Not yellow, which she was so accustomed to seeing, but not red, which she was so terrified of seeing. She at least knew where the blue came from.

She exhaled heavily, and lowered the gun. Derek still looked at her with something akin to fear in his eyes, but she ignored it as she lowered the hammer back safely and slipped the gun back to safety.

“Thanks,” she said tonelessly, and let herself fall back in melodramatic exhaustion. “God, I’m so fucking tired,” she whined, and wondered if Laura would mind if she napped mere feet away from where she had been killed.

“What the _fuck_ was that about?” Derek demanded, and his voice was outraged. Sloan hummed; she had never heard him sound like that before, not even after Paige. “Why do you have a gun?!”

“In case a werewolf I haven’t seen in years sneaks up on me while I’m in the middle of a memory drop,” she muttered as she placed it back into its holster. And then decided that maybe she shouldn’t be rude to him. She struggled to sit up, and once she did, looked at him closely.

He looked just about as unkempt as her. His clothes slept in, black leather jacket with too long sleeves. Dark circles under his eyes. Red rimmed eyes. He had been crying, she realized, and come to think about it, his voice had sounded so panicked when she came out of the drop.

Shit.

He knew.

“I.” She swallowed as a sudden lump of emotion caught in her throat. “Derek, I’m so sorry.” It came out barely a whisper. His face fell, shoulders slumping.

“You saw her?” he asked, and Sloan nodded.

“Last night… she appeared in my apartment.”

He looked around hesitantly. “Is… is she-”

“She faded out before I came down,” Sloan told him. “It’s hard for them,” she went on to explain. “They don’t like reliving it.”

“So you do it.”

“So I do it.”

“That’s fucked.”

“I know.”

They sat in silence. Tense, awkward silence.

“You look like shit,” Derek said finally.

“So do you.”

“I drove all night.”

“I drank all night.” She paused and looked past him to the murder spot. “Did… did you move her?” He didn’t answer, instead looking away. Sloan clicked her teeth. “Dammit, Derek.” She stood, and swayed a bit once she was up. “Can you prove you drove all night?” she asked, and he looked at her in shock.

“Why?”

“Don’t be an idiot. Your sister was murdered and you appear the day after?”

“I didn’t kill her!” he snarled, standing, and Sloan took an unsteady step back. She didn’t know him anymore. Just because he didn’t kill Laura didn’t mean he still hadn’t changed. Shit, he had changed even before he had left Beacon Hill after the Fire.

“I know. And John will believe me when I tell him. But you still need to prove it, because the vision of an alcoholic will only go so far in the evidence room.” She turned. “Speaking of alcohol…” She squeezed her eyes shut at the wave of nausea passed her by. She opened her eyes and stared up at the hill she had to climb to get back to her car. She’d nap when she got to it.

“You’re just going to leave?” Derek demanded as Sloan started her uncertain climb. A pin prick of pain flared in her side, and she thought it was bullshit that she’d get a stitch now of all times.

“I did what I came to do,” she called over her shoulder, voice breathy as she found it difficult to catch her breath. “I need a nap.” She shook her head. She needed to hit the gym, more like. She’d never been so out of shape that going up a small hill fucked her up.

“You’re fucking unbelievable,” Derek said, disdain dripping from his voice. It would have hurt her seven years ago. It _had_ hurt her seven years ago.

“So you’ve mention-” She grabbed at her side, legs giving out, and fell to her knees. _Wheezing breath, shaggy hair_ -

“Sloan?” she heard Derek call out, uncertain.

“Fuck.” Sloan doubled over, pressing her forehead to the forest floor as the Memory came rushing back to her. That… that was new. New and _alarming._ She opened her mouth to express her concern, but nothing came out. Her throat tightened, as though a phantom hand slowly squeezed around her neck.

 _Wheezing breath, shaggy hair_ . _Searing pain in her side_.

She tipped over on her side, gasping, clawing at her throat.

“ _Sloan!_ ”

It seemed she inherited, if only for a moment, her memory’s asthma. Panic welled in her chest. _Shit_ , she thought. She’d never had a memory follow her after she stopped touching something. _Shit. Scott McCall fucking killed me, the fucker._


	2. Chapter 2

Sloan didn’t recall falling unconscious, but she wished she had _stayed_ unconscious. Because it appeared that Derek was as extra as she remembered, and he went and called a fucking _ambulance_.

Probably didn’t want to get accused of a second murder.

She found herself sitting in the back of said ambulance in the Preserve parking lot where she left her car, a bottle of water in her hands and a discarded oxygen mask to her side. It made her more nervous than helped her if anything. Derek stood closer than he should, arms crossed and face stony as he watched the paramedic lady check over Sloan. Her partner, a young man about Sloan’s age, took one look at Derek and decided he should stay in the front of the truck. To listen for accidents.

Fucking coward.

“Do you have a history of asthma, Miss Guerra?” the paramedic asked. She was older than either Derek or Sloan by a bit, her dark hair swept up in a tight bun. She had hard eyes, and reminded Sloan that she had a type. She wished she didn’t look like such a mess.

“No,” Derek answered for her, and she glared at him. Acting like he still knew her. The paramedic - her name tag read Elizabeth Delaney - eyed him for a moment before looking to Sloan for an answer. She shook her head.

“No asthma,” she said, her voice raspy.

“Anxiety?”

“N-”

“Yeah,” Sloan said, speaking over Derek, and he looked down at her in shock. She looked away from him, unable to meet his gaze. “Yeah. Panic disorder… Depression.”

Delaney regarded Sloan closely. “Can I ask if you’re taking medication for it?” Sloan picked at her thumb nail and didn’t answer. “Right, then I suggest you have that conversation with your doctor next time you go. Which should be soon. It was a panic attack, Mr. Hale. She needs rest. She needs to stop drinking.”

Sloan scoffed. “Easier said than done.” She looked up at them and pushed herself up to stand. Her head swam at the movement, but she was proud that she managed to not fall on her face. “Can I go now?”

“You shouldn’t drive yourself-”

“I’ll be fine,” Sloan said. “Thanks…” she paused, making a production of reading her name tag. “Miss Delaney.” She smiled brightly, and Delaney rolled her eyes as Derek scoffed.

“Fucking unbelievable,” he muttered. “I’ll drive you-”

“Thanks, but _no_.” She pulled her glove from her pocket and slipped it back on, not wanting to touch anything and be sent into another Memory. Because she was still on edge after falling back in when she _should not_ have. “I just wanna be by myself and I just want to sleep.” Hurt flashed in his eyes, and in another life, Sloan would have apologized immediately. But that life had come and gone. And now she was saddled with a damn ambulance bill, and she was kinda working for free at the moment because some fucker went and killed Laura.

Not that the money was the only reason she wanted to help Laura, but it sure as shit helped.

“Miss Guerra,” Delaney called as she made her way to her car - an old El Camino. Mick had helped her find it after she graduated college, and he had helped her pay for it. Something about surviving being his receptionist, his partner, for so long. He was the only other person she allowed to drive her.

“Miss Guerra.” Delaney touched Sloan’s arm, and she jerked away in reflex. “I think you should accept Mr. Hale’s offer.”

“I think,” Sloan started, glaring past Delaney to Derek. Fucking Derek Hale. Still ruining her life. “Mr. Hale should shove his offer up his --”

“I _insist_ ,” Delaney pressed, and her voice grew hard as she went on. “Or I’ll be forced to call Sheriff Stilinski.”

“Fuck,” Sloan said with a scowl. “Of course you know about that.”

Delaney offered a curt smile. “Everyone does. He’s made sure of it.” She stepped back and motioned for Derek to move forward. “Take her home, Mr. Hale, and make sure she isn’t alone.” Sloan scoffed. She’d be leaving his ass the first chance she got. Derek came over, and he looked just as displeased as Sloan felt, like he regretted ever offering his help. She hoped he did, asshole. “Give him your keys, Miss Guerra.”

Sloan pulled up her upper lip in a disdainful snarl and all but threw them at Derek. “Fuck up my car, and I fuck up your face.”

“Same old Sloan,” Derek muttered, and she knew he baited her on purpose. Well fuck him. She gave him her condolences, she didn’t owe him anything else. She just wanted to be rid of him already so she could call Stiles and demand he bring Scott to her as soon as possible… maybe after she’s had time to recover from the day.

“Be seeing you, Delaney,” Sloan called as she moved around to the passenger side of her car.

“I should hope not,” Delaney called back, and Sloan clutched at her chest in mock hurt. “Stay out of trouble.”

Sloan gave a two fingered salute and slipped in. Derek followed suit. They sat in silence for a moment.

“Are you going to tell me where you live?”

“I was hoping to sit here until they leave and then kick you out,” Sloan answered. He let out an annoyed huff. “I’m at Theatre Hill apartments.”

“Aren’t those shit?”

“They are, yes, thank you for reminding me, but not everyone can afford a studio apartment in New York, so…” Sloan trailed off. “Just take me home if you’re going to or get out.” She closed her eyes and leaned her head back in the headrest. She half expected him to get out right then and there. Instead, he started the car, put it in gear. She huffed and let her mind wander back to the memory.

A werewolf killed Laura. No denying that. Sloan wished she could have seen its face. A selfish part of her wished it had been human, had been a hunter. She could have brought John in. Now she’d be working around him, and she hated doing that.

But the second memory caused her just as much concern as the first, if that was possible. Scott McCall had been out in the Preserve last night. She had been back in Beacon Hills less than a year still, but she had reconnected with Stiles, and through him Scott. She knew his asthma. She knew his hair. And now she knew that he had been bitten.

Her hand massaged her side, and she knew that the bite would have killed him over the night if it had not taken. He hadn’t appeared to her as Laura had - and god she’d drive off a bridge if she ever saw him or Stiles appear to her -, so that only left one thing. Scott McCall was a werewolf. Which sucked, because his Alpha was a murderer. Hopefully just a vagabond that kept moving. She can’t imagine someone would want to take over Beacon Hills. It became no man’s land when the Hales died.

“In terms of territory, how great is Beacon Hills?” Sloan found herself asking Derek. She looked up at him, and he arched a brow at her, like he didn’t know what to think of the question. Was he annoyed? Angry? Pleased she wasn’t treating him like shit like he knew he deserved to be treated? That would come after she’s gotten what she wanted from him.

“The Preserve makes it ideal,” he said, tone flat.

Sloan retreated back into her thoughts. Laura only came back three days ago, and she hadn’t intended on staying. If a wolf wanted Beacon Hills, they didn’t need to kill her. _Yellow eyes bleeding crimson_ …

“Who all knew she was coming?”

“What?”

“Who all. Knew. Laura Hale. Was coming _back_?” Sloan repeated slowly and loudly. Patronizingly. Derek shot her a dark look. She wouldn’t treat him like an idiot if he would answer the question the first time she asked it.

“Did you see who did it?” he demanded.

“If I knew, I wouldn’t be asking you the damn question.”

“I don’t know,” he said reluctantly. “She only told me the morning she left.”

“Fantastic. You’re useless.”

The rest of the drive followed in silence. They make it to her apartment complex in one piece, and Sloan lost no time jumping out of the car.

“Keys,” she ordered, holding her hand out to Derek after he had gotten out of the car. He scowled and dropped them in her open palm. “Welp, good deed done, Hale. Congratulations. I’ll let John know you’re not a murderer.” She started for the building.

She should have been more tactful than that. If only for Laura’s sake. But being around Derek brought up unpleasant memories - memories of her childhood, of her mother, of his absolute and utter betrayal in high school -, and she didn’t want to be around him any longer than she had to.

“Sloan.” His voice was quiet. It had a broken quality to it. Uncertain. Lost. He didn’t know what to do. There had been a time when he would say her name like that, and she’d stick by him until he was back to his cheerful self. Bubbly Derek Hale. She had held him up for so long, and for a time he had done the same for her.

And then he decided she wasn’t worth holding up. Sloan knew the dangers of grudges, Mick made sure of that, but damn if it didn’t still sting.

“ _Sloan_ ,” he repeated when she didn’t stop, and this time his voice was angry. Like he couldn’t believe she was ignoring him. Like she _owed_ him. And that made it so much easier for her to roll her head back before turning to look back at him.

“ _What_ ,” she shot back in the same tone, and she figured he didn’t like it, because he drew back. She shook her head. Fucking Hale, never could handle getting his own shit thrown back at him. “I have shit to do. An apartment to clean. A murder to solve-”

“Yeah, my _sister_ ’ _s_ ,” he snapped.

“I _know_ who’s murder it is,” she said, and her voice grew cold again. She was tired of having to see his face. “You think I’d damn near poison myself over someone I didn’t know?” His face fell, and she wondered if he knew that his family was what first drove her to drinking herself almost to death. He had been gone by then.

“You wanna talk?” she asked, and for a split second he seemed hopeful. “Hire me. Then we’ll talk. Until then, stay out of my way until I come looking for you. I know it’s not something you’re used to, but you’ll have to make do.”

His face twisted in disgust. “You’re a fucking bitch.”

She turned on her heel and raised her middle finger back at him. Let him think what he wanted. She didn’t owe him an explanation.

* * *

A sharp knock drew Sloan out of her doze, and she blinked in confusion. It took a moment for her to realize where she was. Her apartment. Her messy, can’t be bothered to be cleaned apartment. She sat on the floor, between her couch and coffee table, and had her laptop and notes out scattered in front of her. Laura hadn’t appeared to her, not since she went on the memory drop, and Sloan scrambled to figure out where she should start.

Does she continue with her investigation of the Fire? Should she drop it completely and focus on Laura’s murder? God, and she still needed to call Mick. He worried, and she needed bullets.

“Sloan, I’m using your key and coming in!” a young voice called through her door, and before she could stop him, Stiles Stilinski stumbles into her apartment, juggling bags of take out and two drinks, his backpack slung over only one shoulder and threatening to fall off. He froze as the door bounced off the wall, and Sloan dropped her head back with a groan.

“Thank you, Spaz Stilinski.”

“You’re very welcome, Haley Joel Gonzalez,” he answered cheekily, and Sloan flipped him off as he came in. “You need to clean.”

“I’ll pay you if you do it for me.”

“You don’t have money.”

“I’ll pay you later.”

“You’re perpetually broke,” he countered, dropping the bag of food down next to her and holding the drinks out to her. She took them, holding them while he dropped his bag by the couch and dropped down himself. “That’s why I’m bringing you food and making sure you’re still alive.”

“And it has nothing to do with your dad asking you to do this?” She dropped her head back to look at him, and he shrugged noncommittally. “And here I thought you loved me.”

“I do. I just have to be reminded to love you.”

“Fuck off,” she said, and he laughed, nudging her with his leg. “What’d you bring me?”

“Sustenance, dear sister,” he said knowingly. “Curly fries and a burger. And a Sprite.”

“You are an angel,” she sighed, holding his drink out to him and searching through the bags for the food that’s hers before handing his over. “Tell me about your day.”

“Only if you tell me about yours.”

“You first. I’m older and asked first.”

He huffed, and Sloan bit back a smile. As much as she hated him barging into her living area unannounced, she adored Stiles, the spaz. He was easy to listen to, his hyperactive brand of conversation enough to keep her grounded in the land of the living.

“Derek Hale is back in town.” His tone was flippant, but Sloan had been around the boy for his entire life - anger seethed beneath his words.

Sloan looked back at him sharply, and he drew back in alarm. “Why do you know that?”

“Scott and I went to the preserve. He was there.”

“Why were you in the preserve?”

She knew the answer, but she learned from Mick that if she made Stiles say out loud whatever stupid thing he had done, there’d be a chance he’d realize what he did was stupid. A slight, very small chance.

“He dropped his inhaler last night,” he said in a quiet rush, and it occurred to her then that it could have just as easily been _Stiles_ who had been bitten. Her stomach flipped at the idea, and her horror must have shown on her face. Stiles may not have realized why she was alarmed, but it didn't stop him from justifying his case. “Look, Sloan, I know, disrespectful, but come on! Nothing like that ever happens in Beacon Hills!”

She decided it would be best to not mention the true reason for her expression, and opted to turn the conversation back to a safe banter.

“I _know_. That’s why I came back.” Stiles looked pointedly at the bottles and glasses littering the living room. “Look, normal deaths get to me too, alright?” She smacked his leg. “Don’t judge. Help clean.”

“Pass.”

“Stiles, come on. I’m busy. I got shit to do. Naps to take. Criminals to interview.”

“What criminals?” He paused, his eyes lighting in excitement. “Hey, do you already know who the body is? You know who the body is. Come on, Sloan, you gotta-” he stopped short at the dark look she gave him. She could handle a lot from him, but she didn’t make light of her Sight, and she didn’t like him thinking it was just a cool trick. More importantly, she didn’t like him drawing attention to it.

It had been the one rule of her mother’s that she knew wasn’t bullshit.

“What have I said?”

“Don’t draw attention to the Sight,” he parroted dutifully. “But you said the apartment was safe-”

“It is, but Jesus, Stiles. It’s fucking disrespectful.” His face fell. “For that you have to clean.”

“GOD, you’re the worst.” But he said it in a tone that Sloan knew meant he would do it for her. “Do you have trash bags?”

“I’m gonna say yes.”

“And you’ll pay me?”

“I’ll pay you back for the food?”

“You’re the worst sister.”

Sloan considered reminding him that they weren’t actually siblings. But she could never do that, because, well shit. “And you’re the best baby brother,” she said, and meant it.

* * *

“Hey, what time does Scott get off work?” Sloan asked nonchalantly. She stood in her kitchenette, leaning forward on the counter that separated her from Stiles, who was in the living room gathering bottles and throwing them in a trash bag. A mug of coffee sat in front of her; she still felt drained from the memory incident, and she needed something to keep her up. Laura still hadn’t returned, but Sloan wasn’t worried about her moving on anytime soon. If anything, she was haunting Derek, wherever he was.

Sloan hoped he felt her presence, and an incredibly petty part of her hoped it hurt him as much as it hurt her.

Stiles stopped his work and looked up at her in a scrutinizing manner. The boy grew up with her as a constant in his life. He knew her nonchalance was anything but.

“6:30. Why?”

Sloan couldn’t exactly come out and tell Stiles it was because Scott went and got turned into a werewolf. No doubt he’d figure it out on his own. He was a damn smart kid, and Sloan considered it a miracle he never found out about Mick when he visited.

She pressed the home button on her phone, lighting up the screen. The time read six. “It’s supposed to rain…” she mused. “Doesn’t he ride his bike around? I should give him a ride.”

“What?” Stiles dropped the bag in his hand. “Why?”

“Because I like Scott,” she said, moving around the counter to make her way to him. “And I would hate for him to get sick.” Upon reaching him, she pressed a kiss to his forehead before turning and heading for the door. “See yourself out. Let me know when you leave and when you get home.”

“I thought you were gonna pay me!”

“Later,” she called over her shoulder, and thought maybe she should have made Laura pay something upfront.

It was drizzling already when Sloan left her apartment, and on the drive it only fell harder. She thanked her past self for not drinking during the day, because as much as she liked to think of herself as a competent driver, she drew the line at drunk and rainy.

A car is parked in the lot of the animal clinic, which made Sloan a bit nervous, considering that the clinic was supposed to be closed and Scott was just supposed to be cleaning right about then. Whoever owned the car had no business being there.

Sloan got out, pulling her jacket hood over her head, and made her way to the front door. She didn’t have her gun with her - she hadn’t expected any trouble, and so it had been left at home, hidden away from a certain nosey, ADHD ridden teenager who knew better than to touch it anyway.

The door was open when she tried it, and she stilled at the sound of voices coming from a back room. They were young voices, Scott and someone else she didn’t recognize.

“Scott, you in here?” she called, walking in and pausing at the front lobby. A silence fell over the clinic, and Sloan almost smiled. It was the kind of silence that came when someone was caught doing something they shouldn’t have been.

“Sloan?” Scott called, and immediately shushed whoever he was with. Sloan stuck her hands in her jacket pockets and rocked back on her heels as she waited for Scott to come barreling out of the back in three, two, one-

“What are you doing here?” he demanded as he skid to a stop behind the front desk. Sloan gave him a disarming smile and he frowned in confusion.

“You left the door unlocked, babe,” she said flippantly, and arched a brow as a figure stepped out from behind Scott. A girl, pretty, with dark hair and eyes and- “Is that your shirt on that girl?” Sloan _tsked_ them. “And here I thought you were the good kid out of you and Stiles,” she chided.

The girl’s face went a deep red and Scott sputtered. “That’s not- we’re not-”

“He gave it to me since I got wet in the rain!” the girl blurted, no doubt wanting to preserve her image.

“Right. The rain.” Sloan offered a sly smile. “Look, I’m not interested in whatever you two were getting into.”

“Then why are you _here_?” Scott demanded.

“I came to give you a ride,” she answered, and he blinked in surprise. “What? I can’t do something out of the goodness of my heart?”

“Not while you’re sober,” he said quietly, and Sloan had a feeling she wasn’t supposed to hear that. It stung, just a bit. But she had been hurt by worse, and his quip rolled off for the most part.

“I mean, I can leave you to ride your bike in the rain,” she offered, taking a step back toward the door, jerking a thumb back toward it. His eyes went wide, and realizing he was about to lose a good deal, hastily backpeddled.

“No, no, you can give me a ride. I’ll just…” he looked back at the girl. “The dog will be fine,” he assured her. “Dr. Deaton will make sure tomorrow, but the splint will hold until then.”

He gestured to the door, and the girl smiled sweetly - and god, it’d been awhile since Sloan had seen a smile so pure. They moved around the counter, and Sloan watched in interest. She hadn’t heard Stiles mention Scott talking to a girl. Even while he cleaned earlier.

“You’re not gonna introduce us, Scott?” Sloan asked nicely, and he threw her a glare from behind the girl.

“Right,” he muttered, stepping between the girls. “Sloan, this is Allison. Allison, this is Sloan, Stiles’ sister.”

Sloan gave a wave, but didn’t offer her hand, and was glad the girl - Allison - didn’t either. Even with her gloves, she didn’t want to risk a Memory drop. Not after what happened last time.

“Sloan… Stilinski?” Allison asked hesitantly, as if she couldn’t believe a couple would name both their children questionable, alliterated names. Sloan didn’t blame her - Stiles’ name _was_ ridiculous, but it was better than the original. She also figured Allison’s confusion might have come from the fact that Stiles and Sloan looked nothing alike, what with him being an absolutely a white boy and she was absolutely a latina.

“Guerra,” Sloan corrected. “Sloan Guerra. Adopted, kept my name.”

“Oh. Okay.” she looked back to Scott, who gestured in an almost panicked manner to the door. “It was nice meeting you, Sloan.”

“You too.”

She watched the two file out, and looked around the clinic once they were gone. Deaton kept it in good order, just as she remembered when _she_ had worked with the vet. As it was, animals didn’t stick around like humans after death, and it made the job so much easier for her.

She waited, and Scott took longer than he should have to just walk the girl out. It would have made Sloan nervous, if not for how the boy walked in with a dopey grin on his face.

“Okay there, lover boy?” she drawled, and he gave a smile as he _glided_ past her to the back room, probably to get his backpack. He came back, and Sloan walked out of the clinic first, letting Scott lock it behind him.

She wondered how she would go about this. _Hey, Scotty, feeling particularly hairy lately? Rage? Golden eyes and claws? Well, it’s not puberty_. She shook her head, and once he had his bike placed in the car’s bed, they both got in.

“I got a date,” he said with a light voice. Sloan arched a brow, and wondered how much of him getting a date was him and how much of it was the wolf.

“Wow,” she said in her best Owen Wilson voice, just to fuck with him. He took no notice.

“To a party Friday night.”

Friday night. Which happened to be the full moon. Sloan hummed as she pulled out of the parking lot.

“Why are you giving me a ride?” Scott asked after a moment of silence, and Sloan looked at him in offense. “Oh, come on. You like me, but not enough to give me a ride out of the goodness of your heart.”

“Point,” she conceded. “I wanted to talk to you about last night.”

He sunk deep into his seat. “Shit.”

“I’m not gonna rat you out to your mom or anything,” she assured him. “I just want to… check up on you.”

She felt his suspicious gaze. “Check up on me,” he repeated.

“Am I not allowed to do that?”

“Deep down, you’re a Stilinski, and as much as I like you Stilinski’s, you guys usually have ulterior motives.”

“Fancy words, McCall.”

“They’re part of our vocab this week.”

Sloan snorted. “Of course.” She paused. “What bit you last night?” He didn’t answer, and a tense silence filled the car. She knew he’d heal by now, and if he said nothing, she couldn’t prove it otherwise. She took a breath. “If things get… weird with you,” she started. “You come to me.”

“What?”

“Shut up and listen.” She heard his mouth snap shut. “If you start feeling sick Friday. If you feel _wrong_ . You come to _me_ ,” she ordered. “And _only me_ , you understand?”

She stopped at a light, and looked at him. He stared at her with something akin to fear, unease in his eyes. Good.

“Understand?”

He swallowed. “Ye-yeah, Sloan. Come to you.”

Sloan offered him a smile. “Good boy.”

**Author's Note:**

> Heyo! Thanks for giving this fic a try! So the tag says it's a Moonlight crossover, and it is, but it's a minor crossover to start with, and you don't need to know much of anything about Moonlight to be able to read this fic. The overall gist is just that there's a vampire private investigator named Mick St. John with a human reporter girlfriend named Beth Turner. Characters (mainly Mick) from that show will make appearances through phone and video calls, but probably won't make a physical appearance.


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